Digging his claws in.

People love to know where we writers get our ideas. They seem to think that ideas are elusive, and that we find them in secret places where others never think to look.

The truth is that ideas spring at us from all directions. Like hungry cats, they clamour for a writer’s attention, rubbing up against our legs, jumping onto our laps, and whingeing till they get what they want.

Some inevitably drift off, bored with our lack of response, and are easily forgotten. 

Others are more persistent, digging in their claws and refusing to let go till we give in to their demands.

Henry Hoey Hobson was a clawer. He arrived unannounced, when I was busy working on a crime novel, and waiting for my novel Dust to come out.

A likeable kid that nobody liked. How was that even possible?

I felt for him, even pulled out a pen and jotted down his details, then shooed him away so that I could concentrate on my work-in-progress.

He was a persistent little begger and kept pestering me, sneaking into my thoughts, and eventually, into my dreams.

I found myself hunkering down under the doona in the mornings, dreaming up a whole cast of characters who might be able to help him out. When I caught myself laughing out loud at their antics, I knew I was in trouble. But when the missing piece of his story brought tears to my eyes, I knew that HHH had won.

I got out of bed and started writing his story.

I wrote Henry Hoey Hobson for the same reason I hope others will read it. I cared about Henry, and I wanted to know what happens next….

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